


World War Won

by Rooscha



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Injury, Claiming, Dark, M/M, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Prisoner of War, Public Claiming, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Slavery, Sexual Violence, Slavery, Squick, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-03 05:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17277887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rooscha/pseuds/Rooscha
Summary: “Deadlock has proven himself in combat, both here today and throughout our great war. He has stood by my side since the beginning, a mecha who was thrown away by the same society who created him. He went from scrapping in the gutters to this proud, deadly warrior you see in front of you. He is the embodiment of Decepticon ideologies,” Megatron paused, waiting for the crowd to settle. “Today, Drift has proven his worth, his rights to continue his line, to sire and to provide and protect his lineage until such a day that his offspring may take his place. It is my pleasure to allow him to sire upon the former Chief Medical Officer of the Autobot resistance, as he has requested. Deadlock, you have my blessing.”





	1. Decepticon Day

Ratchet sat quietly in the brig of the Nemesis. The others still left in captivity with him had long since fallen silent. For the first few orns, the noise was astonishing. The zap of living metal hitting electrical barriers, the shouts of irate mecha, the stomping of pedes. One by one, his surviving comrades had been escorted out of the brig by the Decepticon enforcers. 

No one in the brig knew what was happening to those who were taken. 

The war was over. 

Their fate was still hanging in the balance. 

Ratchet wasn’t sure who was still in the brig with him. They had all shrunk into themselves, committed to making themselves seem as small and unthreatening as possible. For him, it was easy. He was no match for any Decepticon, especially those on Megatron’s flagship. These were the best of the best, the most aggressive, the most battle scarred. They had survived all the warlord could throw at them. 

It had been more than a few orns since anyone had been taken out of the brig. The quiet should have been a respite, better than the screaming and fighting of those who had been drug out, kicking and screaming. It wasn’t any better. This was a tense, unnatural silence. Even the guards who came to give them their rations were silent, only barking orders when necessary. 

Still, he tried to drink his ration and rest. If these were his last days, then he planned to meet Primus as content as he could be. He was committed to using the silence to try and forgive himself, to process the war as best he could. The lives he couldn’t save, the mecha he had killed. Watching Prime die, trying to revive his leader while Megatron stood over him, laughing. He knew that Optimus would have forgiven him, would have wanted him to forgive himself. Primus, he was trying. 

Pede falls met his audios and he activated his optics. Time had lost all meaning, and his chronometer had been disabled before he had been thrown in here. It was a dirty trick, but widely used by SpecOps mecha on both sides. It was a tactic to keep prisoners unbalanced, out of control. Still, it seemed a little early for his ration – half a cube was stashed under his bunk, and they usually refused to give him more until it was empty. 

A huge tankformer stalked into his view, much larger and heavier than was needed for distributing rations. He hoped against hope that it was someone else’s turn to be hauled out, hating himself for the thought. 

When the big mech stopped right in front of the bars of his cell and took out a pair of stasis cuffs, Ratchet’s fuel pump sped up. It was his time to face the punishment of being an Autobot under Decepticon rule.

Clambering to his pedes, he shook his helm to try and increase energon flow. He had been sitting for what had to be orns, and his fuel pump had barely turned on for the duration. Now he was light headed and stumbling, his crooked and broken chevron sending broken and slow data to his processor. Ruthlessly, he disconnected the pathways, willing to sever the connection for better data processing. It wasn’t worth the influx of data, especially if it was broken and put him off kilter. 

“C’mon, Doc. It’s your turn.” The mecha dangled the cuffs in the air like they were a threat in and of themselves. Ratchet turned his back to his jailor, hands thrust out behind his back. There was nothing he could have done at this point, that much had been accepted. It was best to go along with whatever they had planned. With Primus’ blessing, he would be able to see his friends in the Well tonight. 

Without Primus’s blessing, the chances were somewhat…less.

Still, he held his helm high and walked with as much grace and poise as he could manage. Today, it wasn’t much, but he grasped what he could of his innate dignity and walked when the guard prodded him in the backplates, turning him around and cuffing him in front. He was truly not a threat to any of these mecha. The guard prodded him along, his cuffs secured.

To think, he had been a senator, a great orator, inner circle to the Prime. And today, he was a prisoner of war. 

Still, they hadn’t offlined his optics, so all wasn’t lost. He could still his demise coming, which was better than not seeing it coming. At least, he hoped. Hoping was half of what he could manage these orns. Hope and Primus. Things he had never given a lot of thought to prior to his capture. 

The Nemesis couldn’t be in flight. The floors were too quiet, there was no strum of energy, no engine vibrations. The gray hallways were scuffed and stripped of all color, except for dull streaks wherever a mecha had been shoved against the wall or otherwise had been forcibly removed of his paint. It almost made him smile, bringing him memories of Prowl chasing Sideswipe and Sunstreaker down the halls of every ship or base they had ever inhabited together. Many similar red streaks had been on the walls. Rarely ever had there been yellow streaks. 

Hallway after hallway, they seemed to be going down, not up. Megatron should have been in his throne room, which was towards the upper decks and near the bow of the Nemesis. This was opposite. They were going towards the aft of the ship, and his fears were confirmed when the other mecha pushed him into an elevator and the lift began to sink. 

Were they jettisoning prisoners? Cybertronians were a spacefaring species, that was true, but there was little they could do alone in space. Give them a craft, any way to navigate, and chances of survival were good. He doubted that the warlord would be giving his POWs a craft or rations. 

The elevator dinged, and before Ratchet could laugh about the noise, the cacophony of thousands of mecha screaming overtook his audials. His guard had to do more than poke him to get his pedes moving, and the cold barrel of a gun poked into his lower back, just under his medical pack. The whine of a charging capacitor cut through, and he forced his pedes to move. 

They were moving towards the cargo bay, the largest open spot on a ship. Megatron was known to be a fastidious creature, not one to allow his ships bays to be crowded and cluttered. He knew that the space there was bound to be full today, just not of goods or ships, but of mecha. 

He was pushed through a doorway, just not as roughly as he had expected. The guard’s gun barrel had been folded away. That was interesting. This mech did not want to be seen treating the prisoners roughly. 

As he cleared the doorway, thousands upon thousands of blood red optics turned to watch him invade their space. If anything, the shouting increased in volume and ferocity. Thankfully the lift had released him on a catwalk above the cargo hold, allowing him separation from the majority of the mecha.

The scene below was one of loosely organized chaos. Most of the mecha were crammed together against the walls, screaming and shouting at those few in the center. The middle of the space was mostly empty, save for a few combatants. 

It was a mock gladiatorial ring. The few mecha in the center were fighting with non-energized weaponry. Swords, fists, axes. The Decepticons were not shouting at him, but rather at their brethren. Small favors. Now that he could relax at least a little, flanked by guards on either side, he concentrated on the show below him.   
No Autobots were involved in the combat. Relief trickled down his struts. He wouldn’t have lasted long in combat against any of these mecha. But still, no Autobots of remains of any ‘Bots could be seen. The only mechanisms on the floor were ‘Cons. Still, he looked over the crowd, optics picking out any details he could use to find out what was going on.

Megatron was lounging in a throne off to one side, his legs spread out in front of him, looking every inch the king. Starscream was kneeling beside the throne, but he was facing the opposite direction of the combat. His wings were flared at wide as they would go, but Ratchet couldn’t see his face. As he watched, Starscream’s helm turned to the side, trying to glimpse some of the combat happening at his back. Megatron’s huge hand landed on top of his helm and forcibly turned him back around. After Starscream had turned back around, the gray hand landed on one of Starscream’s wings, where he began tracing bite marks. 

Ratchet had lived a long life and he had seen a lot of things in that time. Decepticons did not believe in love, at least not as the ‘Bots did. Whereas ‘Bots believed in Conjuxes and free love, the ability to choose and leave as needed, ‘Cons did not. They believed in a much firmer idea of love. Or at least something akin to love. They believed in wanting someone and taking steps to own that person. It was a harsh courtship, one of dominance and submission. The details were fuzzy, but Ratchet had seen more than his share of bonding bites from Decepticons. Some had come in on the frames of ‘Bots, some he had seen in passing. Decepticon fangs had a purpose.   
And now he clearly saw those marks on Starscream. Maybe now that the war was over, Megatron felt more comfortable owning Starscream. Or maybe, Megatron did not feel comfortable allowing Starscream to make his own decisions now and owning him as a mate still gave him some modicum of control over the flier. Whatever the reasons, he was now watching the mating rituals of Decepticons play out in front of his own optics. 

He let his optics leave the display in front of him, and he looked to the combatants. Most of them were covered in energon, their own wounds pushed aside as they fought each other. Unlike most gladiatorial combat, this was not a singular one-on-one situation. These mecha were fighting each other all at once. Ratchet tried to count the number of combatants, and it was somewhere between five and eight. It was difficult for his optics to keep up with how quickly they all moved. Swords flashed, fists flew. The overhead lights danced off their plating, their weaponry. 

His hands gripped the railing as he leaned forward, trying to keep up with the combat below. They were all moving quickly, but he watched carefully, trying to make sense of the violence. He closed his optics and centered himself. He ruthlessly shut down his medical coding, which was distracting him. He didn’t care if the mecha below were hurt. It was no longer his concern. 

Opening his optics once more, he concentrated on the mecha below. They were huge mecha. Well that wasn’t exactly true. Most of them were huge, but one of them was a medium size. A little taller than himself, but massing about the same. The smaller mecha had an advantage, too. He was much faster, more lithe. He was able to dart around his larger opponents, jumping and dancing around them. 

The larger mecha were getting tired, too. They were becoming more and more slow as time went on. Fists were cocked back slowly, their swings clumsy. The smaller fighter used their slowness to his advantage, even going so far as to sheath one of his swords. Ratchet couldn’t help but smirk just a touch. Showy. Dangerous.   
The roars of anger from his opponents were nearly as loud as the yells of approval from the rest of the mecha in the space. Megatron was amused, his hand stilling on top of Starscream’s helm. His grin could be seen even from Ratchet’s place on the catwalk, high above their helms. 

Megatron was speaking, but Ratchet couldn’t hear the words. But no one could miss when the warlord raised his hand and pointed directly at him. The weight of thousands of optics landing on him all at once was stifling. Still, he did not allow himself to shrink, to bow. He stood as steady as he could, hands still grasping the railing. 

There were five mecha below. Now that they had stopped moving, he could actually get a solid count. Most of them were the same muted colors, ranging between a dark purple and a dark blue. One of them, the swordsmecha, was a clean white. It took guts to be white in the ‘Con army. White looked dirty easily, took a lot of upkeep. It was expensive. 

They were all looking up him, the combatants. There seemed to be some kind of unspoken agreement that his introduction was a pause in the game. He allowed himself to look at all of their faceplates, unsure if they were to be his executioner or not. Whatever they were to be, he wanted to know their faces. Ruby optics, angular faces. They looked almost exactly the same. Malice, pure hatred, behind their optics.   
Except for the swordsmecha. 

Frag.

Fragitall.

Frag Primus.

Frag Prime. 

Frag Megatron.

Frag Deadlock. 

Why wouldn’t Deadlock be looking up at him? After all, Primus fragging hated him. 

Deadlock was grinning up at him, energon pooling around his chassis, dripping down his legs. His own cuts were oozing, pumping some fresh pink onto his pristine white plating. Some of the energon was so old that it was flaking off. He must have been fighting for at least a joor, energon did not dry out on plating quickly.  
Megatron said something else, his hand lazily waving. 

Combat resumed. The break had done them all some good, reenergizing the mecha. Now that he knew them all, had seen their faceplates, it was much easier for him to watch the fight. Fists were flying through the air, short swords and axes flashed. But Drift – no - Deadlock, fought like a mech possessed. 

His optics were flashing in time with his swords, an easy grin on his faceplate. The other mecha fought fiercely, but there was no doubt who was the mecha to beat. The other mecha didn’t stand a chance, it was obvious even to him that Deadlock was toying with them, making the fight more of a show than a true feat of strength and skill. 

Megatron approved, that much was obvious. His optics were dark with lust – whether it was lust of the body or blood, Ratchet wasn’t sure. More frightening were the guards on either side of him, silent and watchful. He had not been beckoned to the floor, hadn’t been shot through the helm. He hadn’t been set up for torture. His hands were still cuffed as he grasped the railing, but they weren’t overly tight or even behind his back. The message was clear – he wasn’t deemed a threat. Nor did he feel like one. 

The crowd below shrieked in unison, the normal yelling and screaming drowned out by the singular note of a thousand mecha. Ratchet slammed back into his own body, his thoughts abandoned. Below, Drift had dispatched three of his four enemies, all of whom were nursing wounds of various sizes and threats to life. The Decepticon ‘medics’ were doing their best, but they were going to lose the big blue one. He was losing energon much too fast, and they were wasting time working on him. 

Drift had the last mecha, a big convoy with ugly yellow stripes, down on his knees. Drift only had a sliver of his attention on the mecha, the rest was focused on Megatron. Ratchet watched the expanding puddle of energon leak out from the convoy and knew that he was most likely going to die anyways. When Megatron nodded, Deadlock didn’t break optic contact with his Master as he flicked the blade and ended the life next to him. 

They were speaking, but Ratchet couldn’t hear over the shouting. Deadlock was turned towards Megatron still but had sheathed his blades. The swordsmecha dropped to one knee beside the deactivated frame and placed one hand over his spark. 

Megatron waved his hand, beckoning forth an aide. They exchanged words, Deadlock moving towards his master, joining the conversation. They spoke for a few moments, but they seemed to be waiting on the aide, who was frantically plugging data into his pad. After a few moments, Megatron rolled to his feet and pat Starscream on the helm. Then he spoke, his voice carrying with the help of Soundwave. 

“Deadlock has proven himself in combat, both here today and throughout our great war. He has stood by my side since the beginning, a mecha who was thrown away by the same society who created him. He went from scrapping in the gutters to this proud, deadly warrior you see in front of you. He is the embodiment of Decepticon ideologies,” Megatron paused, waiting for the crowd to settle. “Today, Drift has proven his worth, his rights to continue his line, to sire and to provide and protect his lineage until such a day that his offspring may take his place. It is my pleasure to allow him to sire upon the former Chief Medical Officer of the Autobot resistance, as he has requested. Deadlock, you have my blessing.” 

The deck beneath his pedes shook as the mecha below him screamed and stomped, their approval ringing through the cavernous space. The noise faded in his helm to a dead silence. His audials had shut down, a protection for his mind more than his body.

His knees buckled as Megatron guestured to him, thousands of optics turning to look at him. He used to be the CMO of an army of hundreds of thousands mecha, and now he was going to be reduced to a broodmare for a mecha he had real history with. 

And Deadlock’s optics were locked on his, the grin still in place, his fangs glinting in the overhead lighting. 

Ratchet did his best to remain upright, unwilling to break optic contact. The guards flanking him grabbed his arms, half-pushing and half guiding him to the staircase. He kept his helm up, refusing to look weak in front of these mecha. His audials were off, but his optics were working just fine. All of these mecha wanted a piece of him. They were hungry, his tanks roiled and he was so glad they were empty. 

Deadlock was waiting for him.


	2. Look Out, Slagger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major warnings on this chapter. Rape, Non-con, blood play, intimate areas being hurt, if you're squicked please leave now. Also written way too late at night.

Deadlock looked him in the optics, hand outstretched. Every fiber in his being was screaming at him, telling him to ignore the outstretched hand and focus on the manic warlord just beyond his shoulder. Still, Deadlock was his best chance of survival. Jazz’s voice was echoing in his helm, telling him that living another day is another chance to escape. Living was everything, only the living matter. 

And so he reluctantly brought his worn servos up to Deadlock’s own. At least their hands seemed to match, even if their symbols were completely different. His hands were chipped, the joints particularly worn. Deadlock’s were also missing paint, but they also looked as though they had never been properly serviced. His fingers were crooked, one of the knuckles on his dominant hand was bent horribly to the side. These injuries looked old, not recent from the battle. He twitched, wanting desperately to begin work. 

He was still concentrating on the white hands in front of him when he placed his servo in the outstretched hand. 

Then he was on the floor. 

His audials rebooted as his helm hit – not the floor – but one of Deadlock’s servos. The blasted mech had upended him in one smooth move and had managed to protect his processor from damage. The rushing input of data from his audials was intense and coupled with the pain radiating from his aging hips, he was properly stunned. 

Deadlock pressed his advantaged without hesitating, lithely slipping from next to him to straddling his hips. The medic must have grimaced from the pressure, because Deadlock lifted his own weight marginally. What the frag was he thinking, picking an old mech like him? His gestational tank was in working order, but that didn’t mean it should be used. 

Deadlock didn’t seemed concerned about the actually sparklings, just the making of them. His servos were running over Ratchet’s bulky chassis, seeking out his pleasure points. The white mecha’s slim claws were slipping in between seams and teasing wires. The energon from his kills was still drying on his fingers, and there was just enough charge left in the fluid to zap enticingly from Ratchet’s wiring to Deadlock’s fingertips. 

If it wasn’t for the thousands of Decepticons watching, Megatron looming, Starscream on his knees and the knowledge that he was to be a broodmare, it would’ve been quite enjoyable. While he wasn’t necessarily a prude, he had gotten less adventurous in the berth as he had aged. It had been over a hundred vorn since he had last interfaced in public, with voyeurs. Pit, it had been a few decades since he’d interfaced at all. 

Deadlock didn’t seem to mind their audience, nor was he particularly bothered by the lack of response from Ratchet. Mecha were creeping ever closer, and Ratchet couldn’t help but tilt his helm back to survey the audience. The tips of his chevron, or at least what was left of the shattered metal, scraped against the floor. Deadlock, ever the opportunist, licked a long line from Ratchet’s grille to his jaw line. The medic shuddered, keeping his helm back. Those deadly fangs were incredibly close to his main line. Even a small puncture would drain him quickly, and he didn’t exactly trust the competency of the Decepticon medics. 

A huge pede landed close to Ratchet’s optic, far too close for comfort. Deadlock seemed to agree with his assessment, peeling his face and fangs away from Ratchet’s throat and hissing in defiance. The medic found the flared plating and blatant aggression downright alluring. As much as he hated himself for the thought. He’d always been attracted to more powerful mecha. Pit take him. 

Deadlock hissed again, his hand falling quickly to the hilt of one of his short swords. The other mecha backed off quickly, and Ratchet could hear the clangs and clatters as his neighbors thumped him. 

Seizing his opportunity, the medic tucked his helm back down, protecting his mainline. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Deadlock turned his red optics back down to his own, lazy grin replacing the fierce expression. 

“Heya, Ratch. Gunna open for me?” Deadlock’s voice was rough, baritone and as sexy as anything Ratchet had ever heard. The clawed hands of a Decepticon warrior were hovering above his interfacing panel. 

It wasn’t a pleasant decision to make. His valve was dry, and his spike was buried about as far into his frame as it could manage. Not that he had any ideas about Deadlock having an interest in his spike. Fear was not a sexy motivator for his equipment to start working. Especially not after such a long sabbatical. He was in for pain one way or another. Deadlock would have to take his panel, it would be Ratchet’s tiny rebellion. And, in his opinion, it would be a great start to their ‘relationship.’ As a prisoner, being raped by someone who wanted to use his frame for their own gain, he didn’t have a lot of guilt about making this difficult for the warrior. 

Ratchet remained steadfast and silent. He didn’t break optic contact. He did not answer verbally or with his helm. His hands were still cuffed, pulled up to his chestplates in a protective gesture over his spark. He didn’t owe this mecha anything. Sure, they had their run ins during the war. Deadlock stalked him. Deadlock found him. Deadlock hacked his comm. Deadlock had sent him gifts. It had been disturbing, and Ratchet had not returned the affection. SpecOps had been informed. Ratchet had been informed that until Deadlock did something truly disturbing or threatening to his person, it was his problem to deal with. This was what he got for ignoring his problems. It was Pharma all over again. 

Deadlock hovered for a moment, threatening. Megatron leaned forward on his throne, engrossed in the scene before him. Deadlock’s optics flitted away from Ratchet’s for just a moment, turning slightly towards his master. 

Then he struck, claws sinking into the sensor rich paneling. Nodes that had been long abandoned flared to life, pain cresting over him in a wave. Then his valve and spike housing were open to the chilly air, and his panel was thrown aside to the masses. He probably wasn’t going to get that back. 

Deadlock’s optics were hard now, the grin on his faceplate was a little more brittle. Despite the pain, Ratchet felt a thrill slide down his spine. He may be a prisoner, a trophy, but he wasn’t about to make this easy for his captor. 

The downside was that all good will he could have cultivated with Deadlock was now out the proverbial window. Ratchet’s dry valve was prodded by the tips of energon stained claws. They were sharp, and Ratchet wasn’t sure if Deadlock could even retract his – some of the Decepticons had permanent claws. 

Drift reared back a little, moving his torso out from between Ratchet’s legs, raising himself up on his knees. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another. Then the fingers resting just inside Ratchet’s valve pricked deeper. 

Deadlock’s claws were so incredibly sharp that Ratchet barely felt the slice to his tender valve. His medical protocols flared back to life, spurned on by the injury. Energon was flowing to the area, valve lubricant kicking on in response to an intimate injury. The pain was there, but it was overridden by the hotter waves of pain from the shorn nodes of his panel being torn off. 

Deadlock had popped his own panel, rubbing at his spike lewdly. Showing it off for the masses. Why was he doing this? If the plan had been to injure his valve, he had failed. The pain was just like a metal cut, more irritating to the valve lining than painful. And yet, lubricant and energon were mixing in his valve, concentrated at his entrance. 

There was only one reason Ratchet could think of for Deadlock to do something like this. And it was nearly…nice? He’d found a way to create a fast way to naturally lube his valve. To get him revved would have taken hard penetration and thrusting, or he’d need a fake lube. Megatron and the rest of the ‘Cons would have eaten Deadlock alive had he decided to show Ratchet this mercy. But this…this was devious. It was fitting a ‘Con, through and through. He was going to have an infection. He was in pain. But that spike Deadlock was palming was more than large enough to cause a lot more pain than he was currently basking in. 

Deadlock stopped his lewd pawing at his spike. Now that Ratchet could see it properly, it was definitely modded. There were nubs running up and down both of the lateral sides, just a touch too big to be comfortable. He also had a deflated knot, and what looked to be a ladder piercing just at the base near the knot. As a medic, he couldn’t suggest both a knot and piercings, but if wielded properly…

Deadlock didn’t give him the chance to make any more observations. In a smooth move only a young warrior could manage, the swordsmecha dropped to sit on his own pedes and pushed forward into Ratchet’s valve. 

The tiny sliver Deadlock had sliced into Ratchet’s valve protested, spilling a little more energon into his lubricant. The warrior sank all the way down until he was nearly flush with Ratchet’s array. The piercings caught on his valve lips and pulled, making Ratchet hiss. Deadlock didn’t even try to push his deflated knot into Ratchet’s valve, and the medic thanked the god he didn’t believe in for small miracles. 

The pain overrode any pleasure he may have felt, and he couldn’t help but squirm against the warm body above him. Deadlock’s claws were anchored in Ratchet’s hips, pain pricking at his neural net from all different directions. His valve would be bruised, both from the pace Deadlock immediately set, and the piercings slamming into his raw lips. 

Ratchet’s elbows kept banging into the steel under him, in time to the warrior’s thrusts. The medic’s optics had offlined, the sight of Deadlock’s pleasure too much for him to handle. Instead, he focused on the cold metal under his backplates, tried to disassociate himself from the experience. Tried not to think about Megatron and Starscream right there, looking at him. Tried to ignore the thousand or so mecha screaming at both of them, giving Deadlock ideas and telling Ratchet to take it like a good Autobot. Still more were screaming at Deadlock to spark him up right then and there. 

Ratchet pulled his stasis cuffs closer to his chestplates, desperate to protect his lasercore from the optics and hands around him. Luckily, Deadlock seemed just as disinclined to expose his life force in front of his comrades. He just had to whether this storm. Then he could think, plot and plan. This was no life, he didn’t want sparklings. He didn’t want Deadlock. He didn’t want to be raped in front of an entire army. Survival is key. 

Heat flooded his valve, and Deadlock was utterly silent in his pleasure. Surprising, and something Ratchet never wanted to know about the warrior. The warm transfluid in his valve was soothing against the shallow cuts, and the nanite heavy material would help jump start the healing process. Maybe he wouldn’t get an infection. Unless Deadlock wasn’t clean. Which he probably wasn’t, given the ‘Con’s reputation. 

Deadlock disengaged with a wet sucking sound, something that Ratchet couldn’t unhear. So much for his dry spell. There was nothing dry about his valve now. His optics online just in time to watch the white mecha tuck his spike back into its housing and stand. Deadlock bowed to his master, exposing the back of his neck. Ratchet couldn’t do anything except lay on the floor, covered in rapidly cooling transfluid and his own energon. 

Megatron murmured something to Deadlock, who rose gracefully and stalked towards Ratchet. His plating was flared, hopped up on his post-coital protectiveness. Deadlock knelt, grabbed Ratchet’s cuffs with one hand and propelled both mecha off the ground with the other. 

Despite himself, Ratchet was a bit impressed. He was no lightweight, and Deadlock had to be running on empty after his fight and subsequent emptying of his transfluid tank. Ratchet took his own weight onto his pedes and pressed his thighs together. Forget the mecha staring at him, just the feel of transfluid sloshing around in his valve was enough to make him uncomfortable. 

Deadlock slung an arm around Ratchet’s lower back and pushed. Great. Ratchet got a non-verbal jailor. Communication is key in any relationship. Even between a slave and his master. Or a carrier and sire. Or…whatever this was going to turn into. 

Deadlock glanced at him out of the corner of his optic, grin growing. 

“Watch out.”

And that was how Ratchet fell down four steps in front of a thousand mecha.

Slag it all.


	3. Just a touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing happens, but everything is thought about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up for next chapter, mostly. Sorry for the delay!

Glit was on duty in the medbay. At least it wasn’t Hook. The chief medic was probably still enjoying the show with the rest of the mecha. The hallways, thankfully, had been empty. Or, at least, the few mecha on guard were bored enough to be absorbed in their own datapads. Ratchet thought he saw the show in the bay being broadcast. It might have been simulcast to ever Decepticon base. Soundwave could make it happen.

And wouldn’t that be lovely? Every single Decepticon in the universe could watch him and all the other Bots being taken and raped in front of Megatron. It was likely recorded, and available for download. He could only imagine how many Autobots were in those files. 

Glit pinched an energon line. Ratchet jumped, focusing on the symbiont. It had to have been on purpose, and the former CMO realized that he had been slowly sliding off the berth, towards the door. Away from the looming Deadlock in the corner. 

The warrior was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chassis. His optics were dimmed in the bright lights of the Medbay, but neither Ratcher nor Glit were fooled by his seemingly casual appearance. 

He was still actively oozing energon from some of his more serious wounds, and Ratchet’s hands flexed as he itched to fix the problems. Glit was much better at ignoring the warrior in the corner, but he probably had more practice at dealing with warriors who preferred to bleed rather than let a medic touch them. 

Ratchet had a few frontliners with similar inclinations, but he did not give them much of a choice. They could come to him willingly, or they would be drug in by their kibble by a senior officer and paraded through the halls. After a few times of being embarrassed, even the likes of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had learned their lessons. 

“Alright, Deadlock. Your new asset is as good as he’ll get,” Glit looked over at the warrior, whose optics had flared back to full brightness. “I know this is probably going to go in one audial and out the other but try and give his valve a rest for an orn or so. That cut was small, but the valve is easily infected. I know you have an oil pool, let him use it to soak his cuts. Add a bit of astringent, he’ll be alright soon enough. I’m sure you’re creative enough to get away with limited valve usage for an orn or two.” 

The symbiont looked at Ratchet full in the optics. For such a small thing, he had the presence of a fully fledged combat medic, and optics much older and wiser than they should have been. The pity in his optics was not welcome, and Ratchet scowled at him. He may be a spoil of war, and an old mech, but he could still hold his own against Deadlock. 

A small stutter started up in his fuel pump. Anxiety rippled up from his depths, threatening to choke him. His confidence was misplaced. He wanted to believe that he could hold his own, that he could be smarter than Deadlock, but he was without any backup. His frame was sturdy, certainly, and his mind was sound. But he was completely without allies. 

After he left the medbay, he would be completely dependent on Deadlock for everything. Fuel. Cleaning. Oiling his joints. Conversation. Everything. 

Much as it pained him, he needed to at least try and win Deadlock over. Establish a rapport, gain at least a little bit of Deadlock’s trust. He was fairly sure that not even a Decepticon would starve him, but then again, he couldn’t be certain. If the swordsmecha decided that Ratchet was no longer worth the cost of fuel, he may be traded. Or scrapped. 

“Put it on my tab, medic.” Deadlock said, prowling towards the medberth and holding his hand out to Ratchet. For a long moment, Ratchet considered batting it away. He could stand on his own. His valve was injured, but his legs worked just fine. Glit had even recalibrated his hydraulics, so he was feeling better than he had in a long while.   
But he was trying to prove to Deadlock that he could be good. He was a good slave. He was worth his daily fuel. Live today, to fight another day. 

Placing his hand in Deadlock’s had been one of the hardest things he’d had to do since the start of the war. He had violated his medic’s oaths, he had killed and maimed. He had seen his friends die on the field and at his own hands. But this was a new kind of torture. Still, there had to be many Autobots left. They were all being used, likely distributed as slaves as well. But as long as there was a single ‘Bot left standing, they had a chance to escape. The galaxy was infinite. They could leave, live out their lives in peace somewhere. 

A journey starts with a single step. Or maybe a single hand hold. 

Deadlock’s hands were warm, and it turned out that his claws were, in fact, retractable. His fingers were now blunt, and they were utterly filthy. The energon that had coated them had mostly flaked off, but there was still some left in the crevices of his joints. Some of it was from the last fight, but a lot of looked old. Energon was corrosive, and the paint nanites were dying.

The warrior tugged on Ratchet’s hand, bidding him to stand. Together, they walked through the doors to the medbay. The corridors of the ship were still far too quiet, and now the lights were dimmed to almost complete darkness. Most of the warships would sink into an energy conservation mode at the late cycle, and Ratchet guessed that it was well into the late shift by now. 

Deadlock had released Ratchet’s hand as soon as they had stepped into the hallways, and Ratchet followed obediently. The white mech had immediately left the main artery of the ship, taking them both through side passages barely large for either of them. At one point both mecha had to duck to fit through an emergency door latch, and Ratchet was puzzled. Why would he take them on such a long route back to his habsuite? As they finally joined up with the main hallways, Ratchet found the reason. Or, at least, what he suspected was the reason. 

Inferno and Red Alert were together on the floor, resting on their knees. Onslaught and Vortex were leaning back against the wall, bliss written across what could be seen of their faceplates. Both of the Autobot prisoners were sucking their spikes together, in the same rhythm. The rest of the gestalt were gathered in a semi-circle around the two ‘Bots, their spikes out and hands pumping. Brawl looked as though he had already come to completion at least once, given the way his hand was only loosely cupped around his spike. Oversensitive, maybe overused.   
Ratchet nearly stopped as Deadlock turned to move in the opposite direction. These were his friends, his former patients. They needed his help. But what could he do, besides suffer alongside them? Still, he couldn’t tear his optics away from his Security Director’s mouth as Red Alert worked alongside his bonded to pleasure his masters. At least the Endura were still together, and the Decepticons had not separated them. 

Deadlock had only a step or two in the opposite direction before turning back and wrapping his hand around Ratchet’s wrist. The first tug was completely ignored. Ratchet was far too solid to be moved by one small tug. The next tug was far harder, and he nearly fell as his pedes moved to automatically catch him. 

The former CMO wanted to scream, to cry, to rush at Onslaught and kill him. It didn’t matter that all of his weapons had been stripped. He was a medic, he could do it with his bare hands. Without Onslaught, the gestalt would be weakened, without leadership. He could cripple them. And get himself killed, never mind what they would do with Inferno and Red. They would probably just be moved to another Decepticon Master. And Ratchet would be dead. 

Deadlock mercilessly drug Ratchet along the remainder of the corridor, and Ratchet was tossed into a dark room before he could even register what happened. Deadlock was fast, that was for certain. And stronger than Ratchet had given him credit for. He probably had his frame modded for strength, because he looked far too slender for that kind of power. 

“I don’t rank Onslaught.” Deadlock announced to the darkness. Ratchet was still standing right where he had fallen still, just inside the door. With the lights off, it was easy for him to feel safe. Darkness was hiding the berth, his new home. 

“I don’t follow.” The words flew from his vocalizer before he even realized that it had activated. Damnit. 

“Interface in the corridors is against regulation. They’re big aft tripping hazards if we have to muster in a hurry. But since I don’t rank him, I can’t make them move.” Deadlock moved deeper into the dark room, and Ratchet heard the slide of his blades being removed and set on another metal surface. 

“It’s against regulation?” Ratchet asked, pedes turning towards the source of the sound. His optics were starting to adjust to the darkness, and he could see the outline of his captor near to a large berth. Deadlock was on his knees, fishing around under his berth for something. Ratchet was downright envious at how easily the mecha could kneel and stand. His own knees would never be able to move that fluidly, even after a thorough calibration. 

“Just in the halls like that. Oh, and the bridge. It slows emergency response time. But other than that, if the mecha are off duty, nobody cares.” Deadlock sat cross legged on his berth, and Ratchet could now make out that he had gotten out cleaning supplies for his short swords. The Great Sword was still strapped to his backplate, but the smaller swords were the only kind he had used during the fight. 

Was Deadlock explaining the differences between the ‘Cons and the ‘Bots, or was he trying to apologize for not clearing the hallways? Was that why they had taken the back way to his suite, or was it faster that way? Nothing was making sense to him anymore, and his fatigue wasn’t helping matters. 

“Come here. Now.” Deadlock snapped, his tone dangerous and low. 

Ratchet’s pedes followed the order before his processor could process the order. It seemed like he was running on instinct around the deadly mech. Nothing was being run through his active processor before it was being done. 

Deadlock’s hand shot out and grabbed Ratchet’s wrist again, tugging him onto the foot of the berth. The berth was much higher than Ratchet was used to – the ones in the brig were nearly resting on the floor. It took him a few moments longer than he would have liked to get up on the berth, and the creaking his knees made was downright embarrassing. Once he was settled, he could lean a little on the tall footboard and take some of the pressure off his sore backplates. 

Now that his optics had adjusted to the darkness, he could see all the levels of cleanser and polish that Deadlock had gotten out for his blades. There was one disc of a solid cleanser, which was mixed with a touch of solvent and made a thick paste. This paste was painted onto the sharp edge of the blade and rubbed into the surface with a soft cloth. After the blade was cleansed, Deadlock had three levels of polish, all of which were applied with long strokes. 

Ratchet bit his glossa to keep from speaking. If Deadlock could and would spend so much time on his short swords, he could afford to spend a little time on his own frame. The cleanser had leaked through the cloth and his hands were now covered in a film of pink and grey slime. Dirt, grime and reconstituted energon were all combining onto the surface. Not to mention the fresh energon still coating his frame. Most of it was his opponent’s, but Ratchet could now see that the mecha had been hit a few times in the arena. There was fresh energon dripping in thin lines from a few cuts on his abdomen and pauldrons. 

Ratchet could fix those in mere moments, if he had any tools at all. The cleanser for the blades would probably be a good enough solution for sanitizing, but he needed some sort of bandage for the rest. Most warriors he knew had kept their own metalomesh bandages on their person, so they could stem the bleeding while on the battlefield. 

Still, Deadlock worked quickly and silently on his blades, preferring that they were in order and clean long before he attended to his own frame. For a long while, they sat in the darkness, their optics the only light in the space. Polish after polish, Deadlock’s hands working the surface, they sat in silence. The salve Glit had placed in his valve was warming, tingling pleasantly. It was working to infuse the area with nanites, encouraging the area to heal quickly. Given that his only use to Deadlock was as a broodmare, it had been a smart decision on behalf of the small medic. It was expensive stuff, but it was safer for Ratchet, and Deadlock seemed uncaring of his repair bill. 

Still, Glit’s words were bouncing around in Ratchet’s head. What would happen when Deadlock was done with his blades? He was onto the second polish of the second blade. It was only a matter of time before those intense optics would be locked onto him again, targeted within his sights. 

Watching Deadlock’s hands move over the blade, Ratchet hatched a plan. Maybe, just maybe, he could ask Deadlock to escort him to his shower. Then Ratchet could treat Deadlock’s wounds and clean out his hands. Even a battle-hardened Decepticon like Deadlock would appreciate a little pampering. Given how old his systems were, the more avenues of pleasure he could find for his new master, the better. It might take some time for him to fall pregnant. Especially because he was a medic and was quite skilled at making sure that his tank’s coding was hostile to any nanites from Deadlock. 

He needed to buy himself time. Teach Deadlock that having him around was always worth it. Great interface, pampering and conversation was worth a delay in sparking him up. The longer he could wait, the better his escape plan. The better his escape plan, the more Autobots he could try and spring. 

As Deadlock moved to the last polish, Ratchet gathered his willpower and strength. He was tired, he was sore. He wanted to sleep for days. But still, he bided his time. As Deadlock placed the tube back on the berth and took another clean, soft cloth from his pile to polish his sword, Ratchet reached out slowly. 

Deadlock did not respond to his motion at all, and Ratchet took that as a positive sign. Slowly, ever so slowly, he reached out and touched Deadlock’s polishing hand. The mecha stilled his ministrations, his optics floating to Ratchet’s own. His optics were so intense that Ratchet nearly faltered in his plan. But he gently tugged on the polishing cloth, surprised when Deadlock let it drop easily out his grasp. 

“May I polish you? The shower would be best. Less…friction…” Ratchet allowed a touch of a rumble to color his voice, just enough to lower his register. Just a little seductive. Small, nearly unnoticeable. 

The grin Deadlock gave him in return was small, but that hint of a fang was so damn sexy. Damn him.


	4. Damn Fangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadlock is a bit...high strung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. In the final edits of a novel i'm trying to sell IRL, so my fanfiction is a little slower than usual. Also, anxiety and depression are terrible. 0/10 recommend.

Deadlock brought his blades into the washrack. He didn’t even seem to register that he did it, they were just a piece of him. To his credit, they were beautifully polished. Even if he wasn’t.

Ratchet crept into the space, trying to soften the clatter of his pedes on the steel floor. Deadlock was standing in the middle of the space, looking at the swords in his hands and glancing back at the ex-CMO. After a few moments, he decided that Ratchet was no threat, and he placed the two short swords in their scabbards before unhooking them and putting them up against the doorway. Easy to grab if he needed them. The Greatsword stayed on his back, and Ratchet tried not to stare at the gem flashing above the hilt.

The medic forced himself walk further into the small room, edging around his master towards the control panel. It was just as dark in the rack as it had been in the main bedroom, but he needed to see Deadlock’s plating more clearly. So he focused on the panel, turning the lights up to forty percent. It was enough to make out the flaws in the warrior’s plating without being too over bright.

When Deadlock didn’t move to kill him for turning on the lights without orders, Ratchet relaxed just a touch. He was walking on acid, but they needed to work out a dynamic sooner rather than later. Knowing that he could at least turn on the lights without immediate punishment was a start.

He took his time playing with the settings on the washrack, attuned to the motions of his captor behind his back. Deadlock, for his part, was busy ignoring his prisoner. He was instead busy fiddling with a control panel on his arm, most likely reading messages. This was so awkward, and part of the medic was furious for letting himself feel this way. There was nothing to feel strange about. He was a prisoner, for pit’s sake. But this didn’t feel like the dynamic between a prisoner and a captor. Nor did it feel like a master and a slave. It felt more like two people waking up after a drunken one-night stand.

Ratchet tested the solvent spray with his wrist, rather than subject the delicate sensors of his hands to the heat. The temperature was somewhat less than he was used to, even at its hottest, but the Decepticons were known for their energy conservation. Lukewarm was as good as it was going to get.

Suppressing a sigh, Ratchet half turned to face his rapist. And he was a rapist. Awkward feelings aside, he couldn’t allow himself to think of the white mecha as anything other than that. He couldn’t allow himself to succumb to any sort of Stockholm Syndrome. Rapist. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Deadlock, at least let me get the energon out from between your fingers,” Ratchet rolled his optics as the other mecha scowled at him. “If it corrodes your sensors you’ll lose feeling in your hand and then you might not be able to handle your precious blades-“

That was all he got out before the larger mech flew away from the counter and grabbed him by the throat, pinning him to the back wall of the washrack. Solvent streamed down his optics, diffusing the light and rendering the other mech into a white blob.

Well. At least he’d found where Deadlock drew his boundaries.

“What was that, ‘Bot?” Deadlock flexed his hand, long talons back and digging into the tubing around Ratchet’s throat. “You think that I need my blades to fight and win? I’ve been winning fights since before I even had these neat claws. I can, and have, used my swords when my hands were so rusty and corroded that they could barely shut around the handle. Do. Not. Challenge. Me.”

For a moment, Ratchet considered explaining to Deadlock that his words were not a challenge, just a warning. But seeing the deadly glow of his red optics and those sharp fangs in full view gave him pause. Someone was not interested in arguing, and Ratchet had no interest in going back to the medbay, at least as a patient.

Ratchet dropped his gaze, forcing himself to look away from those red optics. Domination and submission is a language all Decepticons could understand, and so the red mech allowed his frame to speak more than his words ever could. Better to be seen as weak and docile now, lure his captor into a false sense of security. So long as Ratchet knew that he was strong, that he would be able to make the right decision when the time came. And he was certain that the remaining Autobots would not take their bondage laying down. 

Deadlock’s hand relaxed, talons sliding out from the gaps in Ratchet’s neck armor. They were still pressed chest plate to chest plate, and Ratchet kept his gaze fixed on a spot over Deadlock’s shoulder. The tension between them was palpable, violence shimmering just below the surface. 

Ratchet’s instinct was to fight, to speak the language that these bloody warriors could understand. Sure, he’d get his aft beat, but maybe he could prove himself. But he focused his energy, channeling his energy and aggression back into himself. It wasn’t a smart idea to expend energy, it was still far too early for him to know how often he was going to be fed. For now, it was better to watch and wait. The Autobots had never been ones to admit defeat, and they wouldn’t do it now. He just needed to bide his time. 

“Nothing to say, medic? I am your master now, you live to serve me now. Everything you do and say is a reflection on me. I had planned on letting you work in the Medbay while I’m out training, but I don’t think that’s a great idea until you can prove to me that you’re ready for that. Snarking around and posturing is not the best start.” Deadlock’s optics were hard, his mouth pulled into a severe line. Primus, he looked just like Megatron when he did that. Maybe Megatron gave lessons to his top officers on how to look stern. Or maybe it was just a personality quirk of oppressors.

Ratchet tried to relax, realizing that tension had built up in his hydraulics, making him stand stiff and wary. So much for trying to convey his submission. With no small amount of effort, he decompressed his knees and his back, leaning against the washrack walls with a sigh. 

“I apologize, Master Deadlock,” he kept the sarcasm out of his voice, but it was a near thing. “Snark is my only weapon, and I am not used to taking orders from anyone. Even my superiors had come to realize that I am…difficult…when it comes to taking orders.”

“Difficult. Is that really where you landed? Difficult? Pit, mech. We all know that you were a little more than difficult.” That little smile was devastating; Deadlock’s fangs were damn sexy. Ratchet cursed the pulse of desire that hit his sore and tender array. Fangs should not be sexy, not after what he had been through. That didn’t stop him from staring. 

There was no way to answer that. Not without showing himself to be a naturally prideful, arrogant and argumentative mech. Which he was. So, he swallowed it all down. All the fights with Optimus and Ironhide, all the times they were wrong and he was right. All the times he had fought for his patients, for their rights and their privacy. 

Now he needed to stop the fighting, tamp it all down in the back of his vocalizer, lock it away in his processor. Play his part. 

The silence stretched between them, tight and uncomfortable. 

The swordsmecha stepped back, and Ratchet immediately missed the heat of the other mecha. It had been weeks of being stuck by himself in a single cell, limited contact with guards. Any contact with another person was welcome, even if it was from a Decepticon rapist. It wasn’t ideal, but it beat sleeping on the floor. 

His tank rumbled loudly, startling both of them. Deadlock tried to hide his reaction, but Ratchet saw his hand twitch, balling halfway into a fist before realizing that the medic hadn’t even tried to move. A completely insane rumble of laughter threatened to bubble up once more, but he strangled the impulse.

“Hungry, darling?” Deadlock mocked, stepping back into the spray, flaring out his plating and allowing the cleanser to smoothly flow under his armor. What hit the floor was nearly pure pink, and Ratchet stared. Was it possible that he was still actively bleeding, somewhere hidden? Or was it truly possible that he had so much dried energon under his plating that it was discoloring the cleansing fluid?

“Are you actively bleeding? Or is that from past…incidents?” Ratchet asked, his medical protocols trying desperately to activate, and he was ruthlessly tamping it down. Deadlock was not his patient, he didn’t need to get any more invested than he was forced to be.

Deadlock threw him a grin over his shoulder, just one fang out to play this time. With the cleanser sluicing over his frame, he looked like a god of old. Ah, pit. This was going to be harder than he had thought. 

“Eh, who knows? Could be from earlier, or now,” His nonchalance was typical of a warrior, and thoughts and memories of his previous frontliners flitted through Ratchet’s processor. How many times had one of his mecha said nearly the same thing in his medbay, seconds away from rusting over?

“Well, you really should consider…if you want to remain battle ready…washing out your hands. I’m serious. I know you think it’s a threat, but it’s really not,” Ratchet stopped, his processor working hard to come up with more gentle phrasing around a high-strung warrior. “It’s in my best interest to keep you in shape. You’re the only thing standing between my valve and the rest of the army.” Ratchet said, crossing his arms over his chassis, heating fans trying to click on to warm up his cold frame.

Deadlock didn’t turn around, but he did raise his hands up to spark level and let the cleanser flow through his hands. Ratchet itched to help but forced himself to stand still. The other mech was still too jumpy, they hadn’t had enough time to build trust. His plans were already shattered, and he needed time to formulate another way in, to gain Deadlock’s trust. 

Deadlock turned the cleaner off, his hands at least marginally cleaner than before. He flicked the fan on, heated air flooding the small room. Steam rose from the floor, and from both of their plating. Condensation formed on Ratchet’s cooler plating, before evaporating into the fan. 

“C’mon, then. Let’s get you fed and then we need to set some ground rules. Then we need to have some..fun.” Deadlock’s glossa traced one of his fangs, stepping out of the shower and back into the dark bedroom. 

Ratchet followed after standing in the shower room for a few seconds, not wanting to seem to eager. But the thought of energon sounded great, especially after the day he’d had. His nanites needed the energy to continue to function. If he didn’t get the energon, his valve was never going to heal. And knowing the warrior, he was going to need a healthy valve, sooner rather than later. 

Deadlock’s swords were gone, already strapped back on his waist. Armed, even in his own quarters. How lovely life in the ‘Con army must be. It was still pitch black in the quarters, but the glow from the lights in the washrack made it at least a little more homely than just plain darkness. 

Deadlock was rummaging around in a storage cabinet at the opposite end of his quarters, surfacing with a cube of medical grade energon. Ratchet was not at all surprised. Someone who starved on the streets for most of his life would be a hoarder. Deadlock turned, the greenish pink cube held in his hands. They stared at each other from across the room.

“Get on the berth. Let’s engage in some…diplomacy and negotiations.” 

That damned fanged smile was going to be the death of him.


End file.
